


It Really Is Christmas

by Boton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dialogue Heavy, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Gen, In a way, Missing Scene, Missing Scenes, No Slash, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:33:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: How did John and Mary make it from the "domestic" in 221B to Christmas day?  With a minimum of conversation, that's for sure.  A bit of non-slash head canon to fill in the gap in HLV.Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.





	It Really Is Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Just a mild warning: Many of you are not going to like this. That's OK.
> 
> I know the prevailing fandom theory is that John spent the missing time in HLV between the 221B domestic and Christmas day sitting by Sherlock's bedside holding his hand and realizing that he was in love with Sherlock, hated Mary, and wanted out of his marriage so he could go marry Sherlock. I enjoy those fics myself occasionally.
> 
> But what if, you know, we take John at his word, and assume that he has conflicted feelings about Mary but is not in love with Sherlock? How did John and Mary get through to Christmas?
> 
> This fic fits with my other fic in this time period, "Homecoming." It does not necessarily encompass anything we learned about John's personality in S4.

The paramedics slid the trolley holding Sherlock into the back of the ambulance and slammed the doors to take off. 

“Pressure’s 85 over palp, heading south. Heart rate tachy at 120. Diaphoretic,” said the medic to his partner as the ambulance sped away.

“You may,” Sherlock gasped, “wish to return me . . . “

A pause while he struggled to take a breath, even with the mask on his face.

“To the Royal London.” Another pause. “Your own results confirm hypovolemic shock, likely grade three.”

Pause again while his eyes closed, then opened one more time.

“That is consistent . . . with my calculations on anticipated blood loss since the time I believe I began bleeding.”

“Shit. Who are you, mate, that bloody hat detective?” one medic muttered.

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped. “Radio and tell them to expect Sherlock Holmes.”

***

****

That Night

John threw a note at the cabbie worth far more than the fare for the trip. “Keep it,” he said, slamming the cab door and starting to run for the A&E doors at the Royal London.

“John, wait! I’m coming with you,” Mary yelled at his back.

“No one asked you to,” John retorted, opening the doors and running in.

Mary had caught up the distance between them by the time John got to the desk. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said a bit breathlessly. “He should have been brought in by ambulance.”

“You’re family?”

“Sort of,” John said, while Mary overrode him with “Yes, yes we are.”

The attendant raised her brows suspiciously, but said, “Have a seat. He was just brought in; someone will be out to talk to you when they know more.”

“Look,” John said, “I’m a doctor. I know about his condition; I can be of assistance . . .”

The attendant snapped. “Look, I don’t care if you’re Prince Harry; you’re not going back there until you’re allowed. Now have a seat, here, outside, at home, wherever you like.”

“John,” Mary said, pulling at his arm. John jerked his arm away but followed her to an unpopulated corner of the waiting room to sit. Once he did, he put his head in his hands. “I should have noticed; he’s right, I see but I don’t observe.”

“John, this isn’t your fault.”

“No, I know. It’s yours. You shot him.”

Mary looked around quickly at a couple of heads that had popped up and turned around at the sound of John’s voice. 

“Hush. Are you trying to get me arrested?”

“No, we’re still waiting to see if you committed assault or murder.”

“Jesus, John,” Mary hissed. “Sherlock understood. He tried to tell you. He knows that I had to do it; I had to protect you, I had to protect myself, and I had to protect this baby,” she said, gesturing at her stomach. “Sherlock was an unstable element in the equation; he had to be neutralized to keep everyone safe.”

“Everyone but him. He was expendable to you.”

“No! He was far from expendable. I should have been able to make that shot; I am able. If I had wanted him dead, he would be. I don’t know what happened; his buttons off center, a shadow, something. I was not aiming for his IVC.”

“But you only saved him to save me from the presumption of guilt,” John said bitterly.

Mary dropped her voice. “Yes. I mean no, not just. Sherlock was right. The plan was to dispatch Magnussen, come home, and be Mary Watson for the rest of my life. One last loose end tied up to secure the break from my past. But then he was there and that meant you were there, and my life as Mary Watson depended on you being safe. Both of you.”

John leaned his head back against the faded 1980s wallpaper adorning the waiting area. He closed his eyes.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“No.”

***

****

Still Later That Night

After an expected change of venue to the equally-dated 80s wallpaper of the surgical waiting room, John and Mary sat in silence for hours, Mary once going to the lobby coffee shop – thankfully open all night – and returning with a cup for each of them, which John accepted and drank without a word. 

Finally, the surgeon came in and approached them; as they were the only two waiting, it was a safe guess that they were the ones he was looking for.

“Family of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes,” they both said together.

The surgeon smiled slightly. “OK, well. He’s out of surgery, and mostly out of danger. As he correctly diagnosed” – another quirk of a smile – “he had bled out into his abdominal cavity from torn internal stitches from his surgery a week ago. If I had to put a guess on it, I’d say that he was away from hospital exactly as long as he could have been without dying of hypovolemia. You can tell him that; based on our limited interaction, I get the impression that would please him.”

John dropped his head, cleared his throat, and looked up. “Prognosis?” 

“No question, this is an enormous setback. We need to get him stable again, and with the blood loss and the additional stress, that’s going to mean an ITU stay. And then we clearly need to keep him here until he’s fully healed; I don’t imagine he’s the type to rest quietly at home.”

Mary smiled slightly and shook her head, as the surgeon offered to escort them back to the ITU.

***

****

Early the Next Morning: Day 1

“Oi,” Mary sighed, opening the door. “I am exhausted. I’ll make us some breakfast” 

John hung his coat and started up the stairs without a word.

“Where are you going?”

“Shower, then I’m going to sleep. If you need me, I’m in the guest room. Don’t bother with breakfast.”

***

****

Day 9

“John, you know we really have to talk,” Mary said. “The sum total of our conversations for a week has been when you ask me for a patient chart.”

“Not true. Three days ago I asked you if you needed the car, and this morning I said ‘excuse me’ before I reached for my toothpaste.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

***

****

Day 21

“Here, have some potatoes,” Mary said, passing the bowl. John took a serving and set the bowl down with a harder-than-necessary clunk.

“They’re bland.”

“Well, I cut back on the salt this time. I’ve been a bit concerned about your blood pressure,” Mary said a bit wryly.

“They’re bland.”

Mary pushed the salt his way with a single finger. 

They finished the meal in silence.

***

****

Day 39

“John, you really have to talk to her,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his bed in his hospital room. He had been out of ITU for a couple of weeks, but he was still far from recovered. He still winced in pain when he moved, even with the now low but still continuous morphine drip, and he tired quickly, exhausted by even a trip to the loo. His bed, however, was covered with printouts, clippings, and scrawled notes, all of which seemed to link to Magnussen in some way.

“Why?” John said.

“She’s your wife; she’s the mother of your child.”

“She’s also not at all who I thought she’d be.”

“No, John, she isn’t. She’s more. You managed to select the perfect partner for yourself. You can entertain your fantasies of playing happy families while knowing that she’s cut from the same cloth as yourself. Your marriage will never be boring.”

John scoffed. “Leave it to you to think ‘boring’ is the worst thing a marriage could be.”

“You think so too,” Sherlock countered. “Plus, although I don’t count myself as an expert in matters of emotion, I know that you love her.”

“God help me, I do.”

***

****

Day 41

The thing was, Sherlock was right, John thought as he finished his sandwich alone in his office at the surgery. He did love Mary. When Sherlock had died (or so John thought), he gravitated to Mary. He loved how much they seemed to have in common and how effortlessly she seemed to understand him. For the first time since Afghanistan, it looked like he had a chance at the kind of life he didn’t ever expect: a wife, a home, stability, and love.

He was so elated the night of their wedding. He felt like he had won the lottery. Mary was his wife, they had an unexpected but so welcome child on the way, and his best friend was standing beside him. His family felt complete.

John reached into his pocket and toyed with the AGRA flash drive in his pocket; he still hadn’t read it. Really, he thought, how much more damage could it do? He knew she was an assassin; what good were details – faces and names. He had killed in Afghanistan, and he didn’t want to put faces and names to that experience either.

But how could he live with the idea that Mary had lied to him? Oh, not about a past lover or some unpaid debt, but really, really lied to him. How could he ever live with the uncertainty of wondering if everything she ever said was a lie?

***

****

Later, Day 41

“Pass the popcorn.” 

Mary reached out from under her blanket on the couch to hand him the bowl as the movie continued to play.

“Do you want me to make more?” she asked.

There was no response.

***

****

Day 60

Was anyone really the same person they were in the past, John wondered. Sherlock had a point on that awful night. John went to Afghanistan, but he didn’t think he was quite the same soldier he was when he was there. Sherlock used to be a drug addict; even if that was still part of his personality, it wasn’t the sum total of Sherlock Holmes. And if even Mrs. Hudson had been an exotic dancer . . .

John shook his head. The AGRA flash drive was not the only thing he was scared to look at; he’d given YouTube a wide berth too. 

Maybe Mary deserved a chance to be more than her past?

****

Day 75

“John, it is going to be very hard for you to be my labor coach if you won’t say anything.”

“Do I need to say anything more complicated than ‘push?’”

***

****

Day 90

After an extended stay at Mycroft’s, Sherlock was finally home at 221B. When John went to visit, he found Sherlock looking thin but relatively healthy.

“John, you have to figure out how to make this right with Mary.”

“I’m the one who needs to mend things?” John said incredulously.

“I had plenty of time to research marital advice while in hospital, both in the professional counseling literature and in the various popular magazines that seem to specialize in this sort of thing. They all agree that marriage must involve an equal effort from both parties.”

John sighed. Now he was taking relationship advice from Sherlock Holmes.

“Maybe you need a change of scenery to help you make a fresh start. I have just the idea.”

***

****

Later, Day 90

“You might want to go out and buy something Christmassy to wear,” John said as he walked in the front door. 

Mary’s head snapped up. “Oh,” she prompted cautiously.

“We’re spending Christmas with the Holmeses.”

“With Sherlock and Mycroft?”

“And their parents. In Surrey.”

And with that, John left the room.


End file.
